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Time blurred into a daily routine of medical school ducklings, meals and meandering walks through the hospital's brightly lit hallways. The nocturnal noises of the 10th floor filled my ears every night while I struggled to sleep. Suddenly it was Friday. I would be going home tomorrow. Another doctor came into my room after breakfast. He was one more unfamiliar face with a white lab coat. The trickling stream of attending doctors, nurses, and orderlies had grown to a raging sea. My father and I both greeted the newest stranger with welcoming smiles.

"Mr. Lang," he said. I couldn't place his accent. Maybe he was Russian, or maybe he was from an obscure corner of Europe. "How are you today?"

"I'm doing great!" The central line and catheter had both been removed the previous day. The world was a beautiful place. Other than the tube in my belly, I felt human.

He carefully inspected my incision, checking for any signs of infection or other complications. "What did you do before your surgery?" he asked.

"I was a wilderness guide," I explained. "I climb mountains and lead canoe trips."

"I knew you were a climber!" he exclaimed. "What do you climb?"

"Difficulty? I climb 5.9 and 5.10, but I lead 5.7."

"I climb 5.9 too," he replied with a grin. "You should come out to Utah. Best climbing in the world! I'll show you around the canyons!"

He finished his examination and said good bye. After he left, my father gave me a look of disbelief. "How could he have known that you were a climber?"

I smiled in response and silently wondered how many transplant recipients go rock climbing with their doctors after surgery. I would probably be one of the few. The stereotypical climber is not exactly medical school material. For a brief moment, I tried to imagine the clean-cut professional clinging to the crux of a 5.9 with his soft surgeon hands. The image made me laugh. Climbing and medical school are an unlikely pair.

While I lay in bed that night, I found myself thinking about a story I heard as a child. A story about an old man walking a beach. Thousands of starfish adrift in the sand, stranded by a terrible storm. The old man stops as he walks, plucking the helpless starfish from the sand and flinging them back to the water. A younger man comes upon the old man and watches him in disbelief.

"What do you think you're doing, old man?" he demands. "You can't possibly save them all. What does it matter?"

The old man simply smiles and looks at the little starfish in his hands.

"It matters to this one."

Far below in the depths of the city, car horns shouted and sirens screamed. A little starfish on the 10th floor of the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center closed his eyes for the night. He'd be flung back to the safety of the sea tomorrow; back to his family, back to his home. Another night crept past. I'd almost become accustomed to the nocturnal noises. I found that to be frightening. Saturday finally dawned and I began the long painful wait for my discharge papers. The clock hands moved as though they were made of cold molasses. It seemed like I might never leave the 10th floor. At last the doctors were satisfied. I signed my name and was free to go.

I came home from the hospital a week before Thanksgiving. That holiday means a lot more to me now than it did in the past. It's more than just pilgrims and natives learning to be friends and more than grandma's apple pie. It's the opportunity for me to say "Thank you" to my family. Eric and I were the stars of the show, but everyone else came on this journey, too. I can't imagine what it must be like for those who face kidney disease alone. I can't imagine what it's like to be on dialysis. As my journey continues, those are two opportunities I hope never to have.

Michael Lang '06, left, with his brother, Eric, during a hike two days before surgery.

It's been more than two years since that November, and I still have not found a way to truly say "Thank you" to Eric and the rest of my family. What do you say to someone who's given you a kidney? What do you say to someone who's traveled far to be with you during a difficult moment? Thanks to a generous brother and a skilled surgeon, my life has returned to normal. A scar on my belly and a handful of pills, morning and night, are my keepsakes from this adventure; as well as an unopened can of kidney beans that sits beside a crow on my bookshelf. I still don't know how to say "Thank you" and I doubt that I will ever find the words. "Thanks" will never be enough. ~

Michael Lang '06 graduated from UNH in December 2006 with a bachelor of science degree in outdoor education. He spent two summers working as a wilderness guide before receiving his transplant and now lives in Durham. He is a challenge course facilitator at the Browne Center for Innovative Learning and also works part time at Jackson Lab and the UNH Department of Audio/Visual Services.

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